


Experimental Touches, Reciprocated

by mrsrockatansky



Series: The Flower of Ferelden [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Masturbation, Multi, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Inexperience, Tavern Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11491518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsrockatansky/pseuds/mrsrockatansky
Summary: Side-piece to The Lion and The Light. In a tavern on the way to the Brecilian Forest, two best friends-turned-lovers experiment further in the back passage of a tavern.Featuring Florence "Flora" Cousland - a hybrid of the Amell-Cousland origins - romancing Alistair, both equally sexually inexperienced.





	Experimental Touches, Reciprocated

 

Experimental Touches, Reciprocated

Wardens and companions had spent nearly a week on the road, following an overgrown trade route by the name of _Fero’s Way._ This grassy trail wound for nearly a hundred miles along ridges and across farmer’s fields, a thin vein of commerce between the fortress of Ostagar and south-east Ferelden. The Brecilian Forest was now almost in sight – according to the map, they should have but a single day’s more travel before the dark fringe of sprawling woodland came into view.

Fero’s Way had once been a bustling thoroughfare used by farmers and travelling merchants alike; yet most trade in Ferelden had dried up due to unsettling rumours of Blight in the south. The Wardens’ party had not seen a single caravan for the past three days; supplies were running low and tempers were wearing thin.

Flora, with a singular lack of social awareness, had tortured the party for hours with her tuneless renditions of Herring sea shanties. A weary Zevran had made a snide comment about his ears bleeding; and Alistair came sharply to his younger companion’s defence. Flora had swivelled around in the saddle to give her best friend a grateful peck on the cheek, only to spot that he had rolled up fragments of cotton in his ears. Correctly deducing that these improvised earplugs reduced her joyful singing to a low drone, Flora immediately settled into a sulk.

Wynne, who had not helped matters by bluntly informing Flora that she was no more skilled at singing than she was at most schools of magic, spotted a building nestled behind a low ridge in the distance. It was still an hour or two from sunset, the sun meandering gently towards the western horizon.

“I think that's an inn,” the senior enchanter called, sitting up in the saddle and glancing back at the others. “We could press on for a few more hours, or…”

“Please,” begged Zevran, his dark eyes round and entreating. “I cannot ride any further today, _amores_. I can no longer feel the distinction between the saddle and my ass. In fact, I feel as though my ass has become _one_ with the saddle.”

They drew their horses to a halt, gathering in a small circle to confer. A variety of expressions were writ across the faces of the respective riders: grim disapproval on the face of Qunari; a naked plea writ across the elf’s tattooed gestures; Finian falling asleep; Flora sulking and Alistair grouchy.

There was a pause, and Wynne cleared her throat expectantly.

“Flora?”

“Ehh?”

“Well? Should we rest here for the night, or continue onwards and make camp?”

Flora roused herself from her sulk and looked around at the weary faces of her companions and brother.

“Let's stop here,” she mumbled, shifting her own sore rear on the saddle. “Since everyone is apparently so sick of my singing.”

Zevran leaned across the space between their saddles and pecked Flora lightly on the cheek, his lips brushing the edge of her sulky mouth.

_“Gracias, mi florita.”_

The sun began to ease itself gently towards the Southron hills, spilling molten amber light over the wooded lowlands. It took another hour for their tired horses to plod down into the low valley, following a winding trail that followed the path of a small stream. The water itself was too overgrown to be visible most of the time; though the low gurgling was a constant in the background.

Flora, who had forgiven Alistair for his makeshift earplugs after he shared his last piece of cheese with her, eyed the small inn with mild trepidation. In her experience, no traveller’s house within Ferelden especially welcomed mages, and there were two of them in their party. Rural inns such as this one had a tendency to also look down upon elves; though she pitied the unfortunate soul who attempted to patronise their sharp-tongued assassin.

“Well, this is rather charming,” Wynne was forced to admit grudgingly, as the party neared. The inn was a small, two-storey stone construction nestled in a dip between two hills; a water wheel methodologically churning through a nearby stream. Roses had been planted above the doorway, and the window frames were bright with fresh paint. The roof was thatch and heather, bright springs of purple blossom emerging from the straw.

“Not bad, for a rural tavern,” Finian added, secretly grateful that they were not spending another night under canvas. “One could almost think that there was no Blight at all, looking at this place.”

Alistair frowned, not wanting to be reminded of the creeping shadow that extended its reach across southern Ferelden with each week that passed. Reluctantly, the young prince found himself concerned with the fate of a nation that he increasingly saw as _his_ responsibility.

A flaxen-haired youth came running out to take their horses as they approached, a piece of straw dropping from his mouth as he did so.

“How bucolic,” murmured Zevran, performing a quick assessment of the lad and deciding that he was fraction too young for his tastes. “Thank you, _carino.”_

“Welcome, travellers!” the lad chirped, the south shaping each word as it emerged from his mouth. “Welcome to the Broken Fang. If you please to leave your horses, my sisters will serve you inside.”

_“Sisters?”_ The elf visibly perked up.

“Aye, ser elf. This inn is run by my older sisters, Mina and Molly. They'd be happy to… ”

The boy trailed off, his eyes settling on Flora. She eyed him with slight alarm, wondering if he was about to berate her for the staff she carried on her back. Instead, the stable-lad blinked and scratched rather stupidly at his nose; his stare travelling rather crudely over Flora’s figure as she sat astride the saddle.

Flora, oblivious as usual, had swung her own gaze over to the stream. She was about to ask whether there were any fish residing within (and did they ever get caught up in the water-wheel?), when she heard Alistair give a small huff of irritation behind her.

“Are you going to take the horses in, or stand there gawping all day?” he snapped, in a sharper tone than Flora had ever heard from him before.

As they entered the inn, ducking beneath a worn sign that depicted a broken ram’s horn, Zevran pointedly dropped back to walk alongside a still-scowling Alistair. The interior of the tavern was reasonably well-kept, with low-beamed wooden ceilings and a collection of battered shields on the walls. Two buxom redheads, clad in pinafores and aprons, stood behind the bar with identical welcoming smiles.

_“Mi amor,”_ the elf murmured in measured tones, watching as Wynne approached the two proprietors with coin-purse in hand. “If you wish to be with _mi florita_ , you must accustom yourself to such stares.”

Alistair grimaced, watching Flora as she stood silently at Wynne’s side, fascinated by the process of exchanging money for goods and services. Bartering had been the accepted currency of trade in Herring, and coinage thus a rare sight.

“But the way he _looked_ at her,” he muttered, loosening his sword belt with practiced fingers. “It was… it was as though he were undressing her.”

“He probably _was,_ in his mind,” replied Zevran, frankly. “Your best friend is a lovely girl, and many people will immediately think of the bedchamber upon seeing her. Does she seem particularly bothered by it?”

“No,” replied Alistair, slowly. “I don't think she even notices it.”

Wynne had finished paying the women, who gave simultaneous smiles and made a gesture towards a side-corridor where presumably the guest-rooms lay.

“Then do not worry yourself overmuch, _mi amor,”_ Zevran finished, flashing a brilliant white-toothed smile towards one of the busty redheads. “These are dark days and there is so little loveliness in the world – allow us to appreciate beauty when we see it.”

Oblivious to their conversation Flora approached, her face mournful and her hands clasped over her belly.

“I'm _so hungry,”_ she bemoaned, ignoring the curious glances from the other patrons of the tavern. “I feel as though I could eat an entire roasted hagfish.”

Neither Zevran nor Alistair felt brave enough to enquire what a hagfish was.

The sleeping accommodation consisted of several mid-sized rooms with cots and hammocks. To Alistair’s delight, a lack of overnight patrons – in conjunction with Finian’s heavy coin-purse -  meant that they were able to have their own quarters. The only chamber with a featherbed naturally went to Wynne, while Finian pointedly chose the room furthest away from his sister and Alistair.

Flora had just leaned her staff against the wall and dropped her pack on the low cot- of which there were two, bolted down on opposite sides of the room, she felt a pair of strong arms embrace her from behind. Heated breath warmed her ear, and a familiar abdomen pressed up against her back.

“Sweetheart,” Alistair murmured in her ear, letting his fingers creep over her linen-covered breast. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit on the saddle behind you all day and _not_ touch you?”

Flora was still growing accustomed to this new, lustful side of the formerly shy Alistair Theirin. She went a rosy shade of blush even as she felt an excited _thrum_ between her thighs, her body instinctually responding to the throaty desire in her companion’s tone.

“How hard is it?” she croaked back as his fingers located her clothed nipple.

_“This_ hard,” murmured her best friend in her ear, giving a little experimental thrust against her buttocks.

There followed a long, dubious silence, after which Alistair let out a long groan and Flora descended into cackles.

“ _‘This hard’_?!” Alistair repeated incredulously, dragging an embarrassed hand over his face as Flora mopped at her eyes. “Maker help me, I've turned into the elf! This is what you do to me, Flo, I've resorted to the worst pick-up lines in Thedas.”

Flora smiled at him, tucking her shirt back into her leather breeches and smoothing her hair.

“I'm starving,” she said diplomatically, glancing towards the half-open door. “What do you think they're serving for dinner?”

There were a handful of guests drinking within the main bar when they returned; grimly determined to finish their tankards before the buxom barmaids expelled them for the night. A female dwarf clad in adventurer’s leathers was absorbed in a yellowed map, pouring over faded text as her boiled grouse grew cold beside her. A man clad in a stained Chantry robes sat hunched in one corner, shooting dark looks at anyone who came near to his bench.

Wynne and Finian were already seated at a table close to the bar, lit by several candles in clouded glass jars. Finian was nursing a large tankard of ale, dark shadows from the long hours of travelling etched beneath his sea-grey eyes. Wynne had her ubiquitous notebook on the table, biting the end of her quill absentmindedly as she scribed the day’s events.

Zevran was leaning against the bar, flirting aggressively with both redheaded barmaids. His charisma was such that both women were soon pink in the cheek, darting looks at him beneath their auburn eyelashes.

“The food choice is on the board,” Wynne murmured as the Wardens approached, without lifting her eyes from her notebook. “They've run out of the roasted goose.”

The menu was indeed chalked up on a large rectangle of charcoal, propped up at the side of the bar. Flora repositioned herself directly in front of it, using her finger to follow the individual letters. After accidentally smudging the first chalked word, she retracted her finger an inch and traced the letters in the air.

“S-a-l- salted… deer…” she read out loud, laboriously. “W-with… dead c-a-b- cabbage.”

“ _Dried_ cabbage,” Alistair murmured quietly at her side; knowing better than to jump in too quickly with a correction.

_“Dried_ cabbage. Smo- smok-ed… _smoked … grouse?_ What is grouse?”

“Like a chicken, love.”

Flora ended up ordering the same vegetable stew as Wynne, feeling that she had eaten nothing but meat since they had left Redcliffe Castle. Alistair ordered the deer, and they returned to sit at the bench beside their companions.

Wynne continued to make small, methodical notes in her careful hand, while Flora sat quietly beside her and rubbed her thumb over various knots in the wooden table.

After a moment, Finian cleared his throat and glanced sideways at Alistair.

“So, would you _want_ to become king?” he asked, in the clipped drawl of a member of the northern peerage. “If you were able to sway the Landsmeet in your favour, of course.”

If Alistair had been asked this same question three months earlier, he would have retorted either with an abrupt, angry denial or a light-hearted joke, dependent on his mood.

Now, he gave the query serious thought, taking a minute to think before answering. After an elongated pause, during which Wynne looked up curiously from her writing, Alistair gave a rueful half-nod.

“I'm no longer… quite so against the idea,” he admitted, with a wry shrug. “I don't think I could stand to see the throne in the hands of a Mac Tir, not after what Loghain did to Cailan and the Wardens at Ostagar.”

Finian raised his eyebrows, nudging Flora’s knee beneath the table.

“How would you fancy being a king’s mistress, Floss?”

Flora gave a slightly ambivalent shrug, too busy focused on the slightly bustier of the redheads as she carried a streaming tray out from the kitchen.

Once they had finished their meals, Flora announced that she was going to have a look in the stream beside the inn, to see if she could spot any fish. Alistair just about managed to restrain himself from offering to accompany her; reminding himself inwardly that Flora had the best defence of them all – a pair of helpful Fade-spirits, who were able to conjure a shield at a heartbeat’s notice whenever they felt that their mortal ally was in peril.

To distract himself from envisioning his best friend beset by dangers the moment that she stepped outside , Alistair drained his tankard and rose to his feet, intending to get another. To his ensuing dismay, the bar was empty – there was no sign of either apron-clad tavern maid.

“I saw the elf vanishing into the passageway with our hostesses some time ago,” Finian offered, helpfully. “So you might be waiting a while.”

_“Both_ of them?” Alistair retorted, incredulous. “Maker’s Breath! He's _incorrigible.”_

Finian snorted, stifling a yawn with elegant, scholar’s fingers.

“The kegs are down a side passage off the back corridor,” he offered, languidly. “You may as well fill up your tankard yourself and leave some coin on the bar.”

Alistair let out a little grunt at the inconvenience, but thirst soon overcame irritation. Grasping his tankard by the handle, he rose to his feet and made his way towards the corridor housing the guest rooms.

The passage was narrow and gloomy, lit only by spare firelight filtering through from the main tavern. Alistair made his way down the corridor, thinking idly on how he could assist Flora further with her literacy; when an odd sound caught his attention.

The rhythmic creak of old bedsprings sounded from a room partway down the passage, light spilling out from an ajar door. It was accompanied by the distinctive sound of wet flesh colliding together; and the soft, bitten-lip whimpering of a woman.

Alistair froze, heart immediately leaping in mixed alarm and excitement. His first instinct was to flee back into the innocuous warmth of the tavern; he got as far as turning on his heel before slowly, reluctantly swivelling back towards the half-open door.

_I’m just going to close it for them_ , he thought to himself, firmly. _I’m not going to look._

He crept across the floorboards, wincing at every creak and sigh from the wood underfoot, then reached out for the door handle. The moment that his fingers made contact with the metal knob, he peered with reluctant fascination into the fire-lit room.

There were three figures on the bed, which was made up of two narrow cots pushed hastily alongside each other. They were naked and moving together; and if it were not for the shade of one body – the shade of deeply stewed tea – it would have been difficult to tell where one ended and another began. Alistair caught a glimpse of a woman, breasts bared and flushed with excitement, moving with expertise astride a pair of tan, snakelike hips; while a deft, sinewy hand worked skilfully between a pair of plump and parted thighs.

Alistair promptly fled down the side passage, blushing and painfully erect, fingers digging hard enough into the tankard handle to leave white marks. Once he was a safe distance away, he leaned against the wall and exhaled unsteadily into the gloom, heart racing.

Finian had told no lie: there were indeed several freestanding kegs located within this corridor, each one large as a man and conveniently fitted with a tap. Yet Alistair’s hand was still trembling too much to step across the passage and fill his tankard; images of writhing bodies and bared breasts were emblazoned on the insides of his eyelids. His cock was straining painfully against the constraints of his breeches, the exposed head so sensitive that even the pressure of his linen smalls felt like over-stimulation.

He closed his eyes with gritted teeth, trying desperately to summon the least arousing images possible to his mind.

_The Chantry Mother’s disapproving scowl; Mabari pups playing in a stable yard; morning prayers in a freezing cold chapel –_

“What are you doing?”

Alistair’s eyes flew open to see his fellow Warden standing in the corridor before him, solemn-faced and vaguely puzzled. Her hair was wet and hung down her shoulders like dark red seaweed; she was clad only in his shirt and her own smalls, her slender legs bare underneath. There was a bundle of clothing clamped to her side, the material soaked through.

“Eh- um- ” Alistair stuttered, clearing his throat with some difficulty. “Wh- why are you half-naked?”

“I fell in the stream,” Flora replied, slightly sulkily. “I thought I saw a silver-scaled salmon. It wasn't, it was a _tankard.”_

She gave a little grunt of disgust, even as Alistair reached out solicitously for her arm.

_“You fell in the_ – are you alright, sweetheart?”

Flora nodded impatiently, water droplets rolling down her thighs in a long, slow journey to the floorboards.

Alistair glanced at her, then swallowed and forced an over-casual tone into his voice.

“Did you – ah – see anything _unusual_ in the other corridor just now?”

His companion snorted, gripping a handful of unruly hair and wringing it out.

“Zevran forgot to shut the door when he was entertaining his guests,” she replied, pulling out a strand of water weed from behind her ear. “I went to close it, and he asked me if I liked his partner’s breasts. I said that they were _very nice_ , and closed the door. To give him some privacy.”

Flora’s offhand comment about the innkeeper’s busty assets did not assist the situation in Alistair’s smallclothes as his cock gave another impatient squirm.

“I want to finish my vegetable stew,” Flora began as she headed back down the side passage towards the main corridor. “I think if I sit down at the table nobody will notice that I have bare legs- ”

Flora broke off in confusion, realising that she was walking alone. Turning around she blinked in mild confusion at her lover, who was still paralysed against the wall.

“Why aren't you-?”

Alistair shot her a slightly agonised look, ducking his chin. Flora’s gaze slid down over his abdomen and stomach, settling at last on his tented breeches. Unfortunately – or perhaps _fortunately_ – Alistair had never been able to disguise his erections; his girthy cock too prominent to conceal with prayer book or spare helmet.

“Give me a moment,” he muttered, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Instead of retreating into the main passage, Flora advanced back down the corridor towards him; brow furrowed with wary fascination. Coming to a halt just before Alistair, she reached out a curious finger and pressed it against the straining material of his breeches.

Alistair let out a strangled gasp as his lover slid her finger along the clothed length of his cock; nudging against the rounded head before dropping to trace the outline of his sac. She could feel him twitch beneath her fingertip, like a fish quivering in a bucket.

Curious as to the outcome, Flora cupped as much of his length in her palm as possible, and began to rub. Alistair leaned back against the wall, a strangled groan of disbelief creeping from his lips.

A flicker of movement caught their attention; the man in the fraudulent Chantry robes was unsteadily navigating the main corridor towards the back exit.

Seeing that Alistair was still in a slight daze, Flora took his hand and led him the few short paces across the corridor; ducking in-between two of the large, freestanding kegs. It was dusty, dim and only partially hidden; but afforded a fraction more privacy than the open passage.

It was cramped enough that Alistair and Flora were forced to stand in close proximity; which suited both of them extremely well. She reached for the buttons of his breeches, unfastening three in rapid succession. Alistair, hands trembling with both excitement and nervous anticipation, thrust down his breeches and smalls in an impatient tangle. His cock sprung free, the head sliding up neatly beneath the hem of his tunic and tenting the limp linen.

Flora reached out and gently lifted the shirt free, letting the full length of Alistair’s erection stand unimpeded. She gazed at it with open fascination, having seen naked men before in her capacity as healer, but never in a state of such rampart excitement. It had been dark when they had lain together at Ostagar; she had barely glimpsed it before it was worked between her thighs.

Appraisingly – almost as though she were testing a fish for freshness at the market – Flora slid a finger up the underside of her companion’s cock, wondering at the firm, heated fleshiness of it.  There was a thick vein that ran from root to tip, and she traced it lightly with her fingertip.

Alistair let out a choked sound, pressing his fist against his mouth as beads of sweat prickled on his forehead. Flora smiled vaguely up at him, before returning to her exploration.

There was a soft fold of flesh near the end of the lengthy shaft and the swollen head was fully exposed; the bulb taut, dark pink and shiny. A bead of clear liquid rose from its centre, Flora pressed her finger against it and drew a curious little circle.

She was so fascinated by the meaty weight of his sac, warm and tight against her cupped palm, that it took her a while to hear the muffled muttering from somewhere above her. Flora looked up to see Alistair mouthing frantically to himself, a flush discolouring the smooth olive tone of his complexion.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, absentmindedly shifting her weight onto her good knee and watching as more clear liquid leaked out from the swollen head.

“Reciting as much as I can remember from the Chant,” replied Alistair, through gritted teeth. “Which isn't much, unfortunately. Ten years in a monastery wasted!”

“Why are you reciting the _Chant?”_ Flora asked, bemused and slightly preoccupied. More moisture was seeping out from an almost imperceptible slit in the purplish head; with a healer’s curiosity, she wondered as to its purpose, and where it came from.

“Because, sweetheart,” Alistair croaked, his tone now dangerously unsteady. “The most beautiful girl in Thedas has spent the last ten minutes playing with my cock in the back passage of a public tavern. If I wasn't reciting the first Canticle, then you'd already have… well. I would have- ”

“But I _want_ you to,” Flora replied, earnest and immediate. “I want to do the same thing for you as you did for me. Make you… _you know.”_

She swirled the gleaming liquid around the tight, heated bulb of skin at the end of Alistair’s cock, and heard a strangled moan tear from his throat.

“Show me how you do it?”

She withdrew her fingers, watching with studious fascination as Alistair reached down to grip himself with an experienced hand. His whole demeanour changed once he had cock in hand, his shoulders relaxing and his lips parting; this was a man clearly familiar with self-stimulation.

Without ceremony, he used a quick motion of the palm to lubricate himself, and Flora’s healer’s mind immediately thought _so that's the purpose of the liquid._ She watched Alistair wrap his slick fingers lovingly around the root of his cock and began to pump, lips drawing back over his teeth.

A throaty and involuntary moan escaped his mouth as he stroked himself; a veteran of many furtive hours spent fumbling beneath the blanket. Unlike Flora, Alistair had found opportunities to relieve tension during their travels around Thedas – it had become a necessity, especially once they had begun to sleep curled up together. Every other morning Alistair would need to creep out of the tent, painfully erect, and spill his seed to thoughts of his fellow Warden’s body.

“Can I try?”

Flora’s whisper broke through Alistair’s reverie, and he gave a stiff little nod.She wrapped her fingers around the swollen root of his cock and began to imitate the motion of his wrist.

_This is easy,_ thought the fisherman’s daughter in surprise. _This is just like hauling up the lobster pots, or drawing up the anchor._

Ten years spent handling ropes had given Flora a firm, agile grip; which she now used for her lover’s pleasure. Alistair’s eyes widened incredulously and he let out a strangled blasphemy.

“M-Maker’s Breath – _ah-_ ”

A wet and obscene sound now rose from the shadowed side-passage as mage pleasured prince between two large kegs. The slick rhythm of a fist pumping a shaft mingled with the helpless grunts of a man entangled in the throes of pleasure.

“Don't stop, baby,” Alistair begged, thrusting his hips forward to meet her welcoming hand. “Please, Flo- ”

 Flora had no intention of stopping, determined to give him the same pleasure that he had drawn from her the previous night. His cock was throbbing and hard as a sword-hilt, the flesh engorged with slick arousal. She felt strangely _powerful_ with it in her hand; a man far taller and mightier than she was – a man who might one day rule a nation – was now hunched, flushed and trembling, against her shoulder, thrusting erratically into her clenched fist with a naked plea on his face.

“Please, Flora,” he begged, hoarse and desperate. “I-I _need_ to come.”

Flora remembered how Alistair had brought her to a startled, whimpering climax the previous night, and wondered if the same tactic might work on him. Increasing the tempo of her stroke, she reached back with her other hand and slid a tentative finger between his muscled buttocks.

Alistair let out a muffled cry, face constricting with something indescribable and primal. His cock spasmed, as did his entire lower body; hips and thighs shuddering with the force of his climax. Blindly, he reached out and gripped her shoulders, fingers sinking into the thin linen of her shirt.

Flora let go of his shaft in slight alarm, feeling something more substantial then the thin, watery liquid from earlier leaking over her palm.

With an incoherent groan, Alistair slumped onto her, bowing his head to hide his face against her shoulder. Flora, who was sturdier than she appeared, braced herself against the weight and patted his back with her clean hand.

After a few moments spent regaining his composure, Alistair returned upright; red-faced and dishevelled.

“Maker,” he croaked, then cleared his throat self-consciously. _“Maker’s Breath,_ Flo.”

Flora smiled at him, delighted at this outcome of her exertions. Both of them looked down at her hand, and she gave it a perfunctory wipe on the hem of her shirt.

“You're… you're _very good_ at that,” Alistair said eventually, once he had managed to string together syllables to make words. “My head feels like it’s been clobbered by an ogre.”

“Is that a good thing?” Flora asked, dubiously. “

_“Definitely,_ my dear.”

She smiled at him, the candlelight from the wall sconce flickering in her pale eyes, then turned towards the main passage with her mind on her rumbling belly.

Alistair reached out to grab her hand before she could take a step, anchoring his fingers tightly into hers in their customary ritual. When she returned her gaze to him, he caught her cheek gently with his palm; bringing his face down to hers to press his mouth against hers.

“I love you,” he breathed, and there was a Theirin vein of certainty running through the words. “I love you more than I could ever possibly say. My beautiful, kind girl.”

Flora went pink to the tips of her ears: not an attractive look on a redhead.

“I love you too,” she replied shyly to his feet. “I should probably change clothing.”

They both looked down at his shirt, the stained hem hanging over her thighs.

“The Chantry says that it's a sin,” Alistair after a moment, and Flora let out a small snort. “To… waste your seed.”

“That wasn't a waste,” she replied, lifting her pale Mabari-hound eyes to him. “Do you have any more shirts?”

Little did either Warden realise that something had already taken root deep within Flora’s belly; that the seed Alistair had planted with his desperate, grief-fuelling rutting at Ostagar had begun to sprout.

A clean shirt was located, and Flora decided that she probably ought to put on breeches as well. The two Wardens returned to the heat and warmth of the tavern; which seemed exceptionally bright after the gloomy corridor. The dwarf was now snoring face down on the table; the red-headed hostesses nowhere to be seen.

Wynne was still scratching away at her notebook, while Finian yawned beside her, russet-curled head drooping like a crimson peony. Zevran was seated at the table, fully dressed and impeccably groomed; his braids neatly tied and his fingers steepled like a Chantry brother.

“Well, well,” the elf observed airily, tucking a strand of white-blond hair behind his ear. “Look who we have here – our missing Wardens! Alistair, you were an awfully _long_ time getting your drink. In fact, it seems that you have forgotten it entirely.”

“You're one to talk,” Alistair muttered snidely, taking a seat on the bench beside Flora. “Where are the innkeepers? Did they get bored and leave?”

Zevran gave a piratical grin, his white teeth bright in the dim firelight of the tavern.

“Actually, they are sleeping like kittens,” he purred, twirling a tarnished fork deftly between his fingertips. “When _I_ finish with a woman, her appetite is _fully_ sated.”

The elf canted his head pointedly towards Flora, who had demolished half a bowl of vegetable stew and a sizeable  chunk of bread in the short time since she had sat down.

“I love FOOD,” she announced, unhelpfully.

Zevran’s smile widened, his voice dropping to a more throaty cadence.

“Was Alistair not able to satisfy your _appetite,_ _mi sirenita?”_

Flora looked mildly confused; she was under the impression that they were talking about food. Zevran relented, reaching out and nudging her cheek with an affectionate thumb.

“Never mind, _nena,_ I am only teasing you. Would you like to finish my bread? I am sick of Fereldan _stodge.”_

Meanwhile, the allusion that Alistair and Flora had been engaged in amorous activity was enough to rouse Finian from his dozing. He lifted his head with an expression of pure horror, sea-grey eyes expanding as they swung accusatorially towards Alistair.

“What have you been doing to my little sister?” he demanded with the blunt assuredness of a teyrn's son.

“I didn't touch her!” Alistair protested, honestly.

“A shame,” chimed in Zevran, unable to resist.

Just then, Wynne slammed her notebook down on the table with enough force to make both tankards and occupants jump.

_“Really, I_ despair!”she announced, in a tone sharp enough to sting. “That the fate of all Fereldan is in the hands of such _juveniles._ Zevran, don't tease Alistair. Alistair, don't rise so quickly to provocation. Lord Cousland, your sister is of an age that she can do whatever she pleases, _with_ whomever she pleases. And Flora –“

The senior enchanter came to an abrupt halt, pausing mid-sentence. Flora looked up, astonished, then her eyes widened.

“Ha!” she exulted, gleefully. “You haven't got anything to tell me off for, _for the first time ever,_ I haven't done anything wr- ”

“Don't talk with your mouth full.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A few things to clear up if you haven't read the Lion and the Light (posted in entirety on FF.net). 
> 
> Flora is a Cousland mage, sent away by Bryce to be raised in secret in a little fishing village on the edge of his teyrnir on the northern coast. Flora is thus illiterate (as evidenced by her being unable to read the menu). Finian Cousland is the 'original' Cousland origin (there are three Cousland siblings, Fergus, Finian and Flora) - recently reunited with his long-long sister.


End file.
